


Sun's Dawn, the Second Day

by kagrena (spacemagic)



Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: F/F, Nargazzut dra-Dagoth, Ysamyne Montrose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22861522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemagic/pseuds/kagrena
Summary: On the 2nd day of Sun's Dawn, 4E 95, an alchemist and old adventurer, now forgotten by most of Vvardenfell, decides to go to the isle of Artaeum. It is a place lost in the sway of the Aubris, where the mystics of the Psijic Order call their home, and offers a sanctuary for those dedicated to learning the old ways.She asks Ysamyne, her closest friend, to write to her.
Relationships: Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil / Nerevarine, OFC/OFC
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4
Collections: TES: Femslash Week 2020





	Sun's Dawn, the Second Day

The first hundred years passed with a great deal of pain. As such, she resolved to go to the isle of Artaeum. 

There, the sun did not seem to rise and fall with the same rhythm and instead would twinkle along the horizon in a daze of soft sea mist. It would lose itself there for sometimes hours, sometimes weeks. Night would come, but it was short; the sky was still stained with purple light and a shimmering of stars, and the larks would sing through it all, perplexed by this particularly violet morning. It was not an easy adjustment. The longing for a dark night, a full night, did not abate, until it did, and she found she could not sleep through those gentle twilights (she preferred to sleep through a hot, lazy afternoon in a sandwich of sheets instead). So when the sun finally began to fade, she would drift towards the shore and find herself at the beach. 

She would pass the hours by skimming stones across ripples of black water, to see how distant they could become without disappearing. This was fine, for a while, but as she heard them plop, all she could imagine was the feeling of being a stone, sinking, still and smooth and heavy, sinking beneath the water, beneath the light, still and smooth. So instead, she placed herself on the edge of a rocky outcrop, and counted the rustle of the tides as they passed beneath her feet. Sixty-four. Sixty-five. Sixty-six. 

When dawn came, all the different colours of a morning began to wash into a misty haze, and the birds did not stop their song for any of it. She was still counting. Sixty-seven. Sixty-eight. Sixty-nine.

//

In other aspects, the adjustment to life on Artaeum was not much of an adjustment at all. The other mystics gave her as much space as she needed. So accustomed they were to the eerie timelessness of the place that they thought little of how a day lazed away compared to a long, arduous hour, or a sudden minute, and saw no difference between any of those; it barely mattered to them if they caught her eye in five days or five years. They were often so lost in their meditations, illuminations on old scrolls and delicate prophecies, that she saw little of their shimmering robes and heard few of their soft incantations. So she kept, as she often did, to herself. 

She did not mind it much. She was assigned quarters in the sixth tower of a building pieced together with a patchwork of giant seashells, with her own abode located in the innards of what was once a rather enormous scallop. Within its polished interior, was an enormous pearl desk with almost every piece of kit an accomplished alchemist could ask for – which was a rather staggering amount, and all of those brass weights and ornate scales and crystal measuring jugs could barely fit within the desk’s confines. Her favourite feature, though, was a small semi-circular window that would let the sun glimpse through, under which she would curl up in her rigid armchair, and make neat notes in a leather-bound journal about her alchemical findings. On the better days, after she had done her work, she would drift off into a dreamless sleep beneath a slice of afternoon sun.

She believed herself to be, if not happy, then certainly content within the confines of her shell, refining her experimental scribblings into precise formulae, quibbling about the difference a milligram makes. This, she believed to be true, until day two hundred and thirty-six, when it predicted to rain. 

Strange, she had thought, that she hadn’t noticed – there was always fair weather on the Isle of Artaeum, where the clouds seemed to be soft wisps of colour painted onto a canvas, rather than the beginnings of a storm. This was by design; gentle, fair weather like the gentle, fair isle of Summerset ensured the optimum conditions for magical study. Rain was an irregularity. Rain was unpredictable. 

This news did not bother her much, at first, and she had planned to weather the storm curled up in the comforts of her room. This was still true, as she was calculating the exact precision required for a demanding alchemical experiment when she felt herself seized, quite suddenly, by the urge to go to the shore and feel the fresh air. She packed up her equipment quickly and quietly, and yet again, descended the tower. She pictured herself on the clifftops, being battered by a gale, standing firm, strong, and sturdy in the face of raging waters. She sat with a stormy expression, as the clouds gathered into something fierce, her fingers tracing circles on the jagged surface of a rock.

_She had been drowning_ , the thought hit her. _She had been drowning, and now she was gasping for air._

When the rains finally hit, there was no downpour, no battering rains, no piercing winds, no thunder, no storm. The water fell gently against stained window panes. Nothing would be washed away. 

//

The head mystic told her that she had been found the next dawn, shivering, delirious, in sopping wet robes. She was told this in an office made of shining lights by a firm voice that frayed with slight concern at the corners. The seas surrounding Artaeum could not be contained by magical means, and thus, stretched to unknown waters where strange, fickle magics lurked.

_Could one sail to Oblivion from here?_ was the question on the edge of her tongue, which she knew better to ask, by the severity of the head mystic’s frown alone.

Really, she ought to take more care near the shoreline in future; perhaps, if she knew what was best, she would avoid it completely. As such, she took the opportunity to spend more time in the grounds. Fresh air and a moderate amount of gentle exercise would be good for her health, and the mystics had kindly allowed her a modest plot of her own in their alchemical gardens. 

It was not so bad, really. She had always wanted to grow ingredients of her own, although she could not rid herself of the image of a little stone hut tucked away on the Bitter Coast, with a wild fungal garden filled with all sorts of noxious, bright speckled mushrooms, flowering growths clambering up the wall and fungal moulds choking the bark of a nearby tree. She doubted the mystics would approve of an infestation of Vvardenfellian fungi, but she supposed a stoneflower or two would not go amiss. 

It became routine, then, to tend to the earth at dawn, to pull through the weeds, to water the seeds. To put one’s hands to work as the sun steadily rose. She would take notes on a bleached stone bench in the midmorning sun, with the sound of water pouring from a fountain for company. 

It became routine. A calming, steadying routine laid roots for one’s soul in the soil, that left one centred, balanced, and able to forget that her life had become a lonely ship, ever-sailing in the breeze, ever-moving, ever-drifting. It left her able to forget. 

//

Months passed. Perhaps years. Yet nothing seemed to grow, despite her tender hands, at least, until it rained again. 

//

She spent that day in bed. Droplets pitter-pattered on her window as she lay, restless, unable to fall into the depths of sleep, but neither was she quite awake. 

She had dreamt. 

She had dreamt of cloudy skies, distant chimes, a flutter in the breeze, and muffled laughter. She dreamt of warmth, the strong beat of the sun after a fierce storm, the hand of another urged her forward. She dreamt of warmth, of fingers gently closing around hers, and a broad smile, inches away. The taste of salt in the wind, the softness of her lips. 

When she awoke, the skies had cleared, and her garden had blossomed. Timid seeds had turned into a cascade of vibrant purples, magentas, pinks and reds so rich that they almost felt vulgar, this garden now full of proud trumpets of colourful flowers, almost royal in their colouring. 

Her hand reached out, tentatively, to hold one such flower - a deep violet, this particular blossom. At her touch, it opened to reveal a carefully folded sheet of paper, tied with a lilac ribbon. She pulled it open:

_Nargazzut!_ it exclaimed.

_I promised you I would write. I am sorry it took so long. Gods, those blasted monks! Wouldn’t even let me send a single letter, took one look at me and decided I looked like the sort of witch to dabble in a casual bit of corpse-raising on the side - not that they were exactly wrong, per se, as you very well know, but the incredulity on their faces - the incredulity, Nargazzut! They could not believe I’d even dared request such a thing of them, as if my mere presence was some horrible plague, some grotesque atrocity that would slither into their monastery and stain every sacred word they’d ever put to paper. More fool them._

_Anyway. Took me far longer than anticipated to crack those magical force-fields they swaddle themselves in, cocooning themselves from the ebb and the flow of the rest of the Aubris. Not even the great mystics, those o so solemn Psijic Monks, can cut themselves off from the world entirely. Especially not from me._

_Anyway. Anyway! I want to desperately tell you every little thing, cram every little detail and description in, but I have so much to say, but I suppose I should start by telling you that I have finally decided it is time to leave The Isles—_

The paper, then, began to extend, in a motion that was not unlike a rush of water, until it was dozens of feet long and having wrapped circles around herself numerous times. It continued, giving numerous details of all kinds of escapades, musings, stray thoughts, theories of conjuration, strange detours, unexpected trips to unknown realms of Oblivion, observations of various philosophies of magic and mayhem and politics she had encountered on her various travels in the past few years, as well as fierce criticism of all the academy’s nonsense, furious five-page-long decryings of the late, never great Septim Empire, described in an amazing clarity: every colour, hue, sight, scent, sound, voice, touch, every rumble of distant thunder and every starless night, every tired footstep trudging along a forgotten path and every crack of light, every lake, lagoon, every waterfall, every tide, as it washes back and forth–

_I have been thinking on this point frequently, as of late. Those like us, we witness the birth and death of Empires, we watch them rot, see their impressive monuments decay into ruin, their bold proclamations be forgotten, lost, swallowed by wilderness. The world will change far more than what my imagination can conjure up, and when the enormousness of that realisation knocks me for six, as it occasionally does, I like to return to the sea, as we once did together. I find comfort in knowing it will always wash back and forth upon the shoreline. The tides are constant, as constant as you._

_I miss you immeasurably._

_Write soon, and swiftly._

_Ysamyne._

With a gentle wave of her hand, the letter curled up and fastened itself securely with the lilac ribbon. Clutching it tightly in her hands, she felt herself crash to her knees. 

She began to count her breaths. 

Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. 

As the memory of a voice as sharp as a lark’s counting the waves - ten - eleven - twelve - thirteen - Nargazzut pulled out her journal, finding a creamy, soft-lined page that she hadn’t smothered with notes, and ripped it out. On the back of it, she wrote:

_Could you come and get me? Need to leave._

_Miss you._

_N._

Five minutes later, there was a response, this time, a hurry of ink, on a splattered page:

_I’ll meet you at dawn._

//

It rained throughout the night. 

Nargazzut waited, by the shoreline, counting softly beneath her breath.

Six-hundred-and-two. Six-hundred-and-three. Six-hundred-and-four.

When the sun began to break through the mist, it was clear, and bright. A small ship could be spotted in the distance, through the falling rain. On it, was an elf with windswept hair and a smile - that grew, as she saw her, as wide as the horizon.

Six-hundred-and-five. Six-hundred-and-six. Six-hundred-and-seven. 

She was half-drenched herself, sopping wet, shivering - delirious, some might have said, because she began to laugh, at the sight of her, at the sight of them both, both windswept wrecks who had tossed about by a storm. 

“Nargazzut!” she called.

And Nargazzut called her name back, laughing, too. 

As she approached, she began to wade into the water, letting it swallow up to her waist.

“What are you _doing?_ ”

“You’re taking far too long, Ysa. Here–” 

As the boat glided past, Nargazzut took her arms into hers, took her face into her hands, and kissed her, firmly, surely, boldly. 

She tasted like the sea, full of brine and old sailors' tales, but you could not have told her it was not the sweetest thing she had ever brought to her lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Ysamyne has not truly mantled Sheogorath in this universe, having rejecting that role in favour of organising a revolt on the Isles against him instead (it is a long, long story), but she kept up the ruse for a while, long enough to have changed her. Nargazzut 
> 
> It is worth noting that asides from his summoning day (2nd Sun's Dawn in Daggerfall), Sheogorath can be summoned by mortals after rain has fallen.


End file.
